


you're my savior after all

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Pining, Soulmates, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28487451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: You keep trying to say it's not your fault, there's something that happened to you, but it's so hard to remember during the day-- the cleanest, clearest images come at night, when Dean's telling you to be quiet if you don't want to wake up Dad. The clearest images come whenever you're almost forgetting about them, they snap at your heels, drooling from their sharp mouths and odd eyes.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	you're my savior after all

There are all sorts of eyes on you, all of them cut around the edges like a collage built from glossy magazine pages-- the background is a stark red, streaks of fleshy pink, deep fat and muscle over long stretches of skin. The eyes keep blinking out of time, keep whispering something awful to you. They form a mouth out of the bleeding, they form teeth out of hate, canines and incisors, and they hiss through the spaces of their gums-- and they say, so carefully and so full of rage: _you have never belonged here._

You wake up with your brow furrowed and your brother inside you (cock pressed against the walls of you), and you've learned to take it well, so you do. And you've learned to fit his fingers against your teeth, his hips against the curve of your ass. And you know how to pretend to be dead asleep so he can whisper all sorts of things in your ear. How easily shame can overcome an otherwise shameless man when he's forced himself inside his baby brother, stained the flesh of him. 

You know you will never separate yourself from this, from him. You know that no matter what tries to split the union of you in two, nothing will succeed. Dean has carved his name on every available open space, found how to fill and smooth out every stretch of skin threatening to wrinkle, has kept you alive and attached to him in a parasitic union. No one else would touch you like this. No one else could.

You're in fifth grade when girls start sneering at you, saying there's something in the way you walk, like you're a baby deer. They find it inhuman, uncomfortable, like a demon has taken over the wraps of your skin and cloaked himself in them. You keep trying to say it's not your fault, there's something that happened to you, but it's so hard to remember during the day-- the cleanest, clearest images come at night, when Dean's telling you to be quiet if you don't want to wake up Dad. The clearest images come whenever you're almost forgetting about them, they snap at your heels, drooling from their sharp mouths and odd eyes. The nightmares come as metaphors and faces of skin stretched over bone, faceless killers. 

You're a freshman when you get your first real girlfriend. She smells like strawberry-candy and vanilla. She wears her hair down every day, wears skirts, paints her nails, wears makeup. You think Dean has ruined you because none of those things are enough to keep you with her. It fizzles out like you worried it would, not with a big fight, not with very many words at all. Dean laughs when you tell him-- he's standing over you while you're on your knees, the motel carpet leaving imprints and dimpling on your skin. His hands are stained in your spit-- you could see it with a blacklight. You can see the shining in his eyes. He says they're not your type. High school sweethearts are meant for whores like you.

You're in college. Your girlfriend is blonde and beautiful, a smile to rival stormclouds and blizzards. She has this rough way of speaking, this wall of familiarity over everything she does no matter who she's around. She's stunning. And all you can think about is Dean. No matter what she's doing, you're thinking about how Dean did it better or worse. She holds your hips, looking up at you with that Hollywood smile, and you think _Dean was so much taller than me when he did this_. You should be grateful you're bigger, stronger-- you've traded hollow bones for sturdy limbs, unshaking hands. You should be grateful and happy you're finally out of the cheap motel rooms, finally unwhored and whole. The nightmares no longer threaten to break your bones.

All you can think about is Dean. You wonder what he's doing with Dad, what hunt they're on, what part of the country they're in. You wonder what wounds Dean is stitching up. You wonder if Dad is sleeping in the same bed now that you're not there. 

You realize, with a gasp and a whine, that you were never supposed to be there. The story would've been complete without you. John Winchester and his son Dean, hunting things, saving people. You are a vestigial appendage, a hollow shell filled with all Dean's overspill. No wonder he kept trying to fill you.

It's no surprise when you drop out of college. Your girlfriend ends up with this empty look in her eye. And you go back. 

You call Dean at every number you can think of until you hit one that's still operational. He yells into the receiver, almost hangs up-- but you're crying into the speaker, begging him to come find you, saying he's right and you shouldn't have left, and you don't know what to do anymore. It's so blurred with reality that you almost believe it yourself, almost believe that you even have _this_ amount of agency, this amount of desire-- any amount of want beyond the image of Dean curled up behind you at witching hour. 

Dean drives all night to your dorm where you're holding everything you own in two duffle bags. He says you've gotten taller, and he flashes his teeth. And you're reminded of all your moon-soaked nightmares. You don't belong here, but you don't belong anywhere else either, and you might as well push yourself beside the only person who's ever changed you. 

Dean takes you to a hotel, nicer than the places that formed you. He doesn't know where to put his hands now that you're taller than him, keeps laughing and pressing his teeth to your neck, keeps saying he wants to shrink you down and swallow you whole. You think about all the bodies he's pushed his way inside of while you were gone-- he's always been good with girls, always known the exact right buttons to press, when to push and when to pull. You think about all the women that know the way he fucked you without ever meeting you. You wonder how many women that makes you related to. You wonder if that bond is as strong as brothers, shattered before they were born, trying to fit pieces that don't quite work into each other's skin, trying to use each other as splints for their broken bones.

He lays you down, pulls your shirt away from your body, kisses you with a gentleness he's never displayed before. Doesn't leave any marks. It's so sweet and innocent you'd think it's the first time he's ever taken someone to a hotel, the first time he's pressed his lips to the swell of someone's ribs. He says he doesn't want to ruin you, not tonight. He wants to leave you whole, just for once. He says he's so sorry, he says he'll make it up to you. He says he'll leave the whiskey, the porn, the women, he'll leave it all for you, if you just promise to stay with him. 

You don't believe him. But you promise. 


End file.
